


Roll On Back

by BlueTwo



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Burgeoning Thot Lorenz, Frat Boy Claude, Implied Sylvain Jose Gautier/Bernadetta Von Varley, M/M, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueTwo/pseuds/BlueTwo
Summary: It's not often that Claude miscalculates, but when he does, it has consequences.OR, Lorenz agrees with Sylvain that Ginuwine walked so Lil Nas X could run.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 174





	Roll On Back

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for sexual content, alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, spite twerking. definitely much milder than i intended it to be, which i'll have to fix for the next time. + thank you [@rachebones](http://www.twitter.com/rachebones) for volunteering as sounding board!

“Why must it be so infernally cold?”

Ferdinand frowns over his shoulder at Lorenz, who has taken to trailing behind the much broader shapes of Ferdinand and Hubert, intertwined and consequently providing something of a barrier from the late autumn chill. Lorenz knows from experience that his best friend would offer his own coat—a sturdy, structured wool blend far more substantial than Lorenz’s gleaming leather jacket—if it were not already lovingly draped over his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Hm. I'd have thought shame alone would be enough to keep you warm,” says said boyfriend, the intolerable bastard.

“Hubert!” Ferdinand chides with a light _thwap_ to his chest.

“Merely an observation,” he says innocently.

Lorenz does indeed flush hot at the implied insult, uncrossing his arms to tug at the hem of his shorts. “There is no shame in dressing to accentuate your best features,” he volleys back with casual condescension. “Though as someone who doesn’t have any, I wouldn’t expect you to know.”

Ferdinand slaps his free hand over his face and groans. “Lorenz, please do not encourage him.” Then, barely a scant moment later, to Hubert as he nuzzles his nose consolingly against a gaunt cheek: “All of your features are the best, sweetheart.”

Lorenz holds back a gag; while he respects Ferdinand’s opinion on many things, there is sometimes truly no accounting for taste.

Miraculously, they avoid further discord as they cross the windy quad. At the end of it, past the humanities building, a line of oak trees guides them to a side street that opens on the sprawling lawn of the Blue Lion House. 

It’s a grand structure— more of a mansion, for all that it houses only eight students. However, any delusions of splendor are quickly resolved by its front yard, littered with empty bottles of Michelob Ultra and confetti that, upon closer inspection, might be stray condom wrappers. 

The three houses all have their reputations, and the Blue Lion House is the land of student athletes, emotional repression, and keg stands. Ferdinand, an extrovert and a Taurus besides, is far more comfortable there than either his boyfriend or his best friend, who both tense as they finally reach the opulent, pillared front steps.

The place already teems with people as they step inside. As they inch into the high-ceilinged cathedral of a foyer, the stench of weed filters from the upstairs balcony like incense. Past the entrance is the open concept kitchen: a church devoted to the depravity of youth and bearing a crowded altar of Jimador, Goose, and Captain. Annette spots Ferdinand as she finishes pouring drinks and dashes around the counter, sliding to a stop in front of them. She has three shots precariously balanced in each hand. 

“Ferdie! Hi!” she beams, and Lorenz almost cackles when Hubert immediately makes a face reminiscent of indigestion. “Aw, and you were able to talk Hubert into coming! Dimitri will be so happy you decided to make it out,” she tells them. “You and El spend so much time in the library, it’s like you practically work there!” 

“We do work there,” Hubert says.

“And how sad is _that_. Come on, the guys are over here. I was just fetching the next round of shots! Claude insisted on tequila tonight and poor Mitya has been struggling to keep up,” she whisper-shouts. Then she stops, momentarily stunned. "Oh!  Lorenz, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there!" 

Caught out, Lorenz ruefully emerges from behind Hubert's shadow, a rosy pink blossoming across his nose. "Wow, you look amazing," Annette continues, undaunted. "I love your shoes. I wish I could wear heels like that, but I can’t balance to save my life.”

“Ah— thank you. A little practice does wonders, I’ve found,” Lorenz murmurs demurely. Annette bumps his shoulder and beams.

“You look great. Now let’s get these to the boys before they get ants in their pants.” She starts to sing under her breath as she wends her way through the crush of people. "Drinks for friends, drinks for friends, never knowing how the night will end!”

Lorenz lets her take the lead, and only follows once Ferdinand and Hubert pass him. With his uncanny empathetic sense, Ferdinand shoots him a skeptical look— one Lorenz pretends he doesn’t see, staring straight ahead. Ferdinand is right, though, curse him: despite Annette’s reassurance, he finds himself unbearably anxious over how the others will react. Well... one person in particular.

Of course, that person is the first to notice them.

“Annie! Finally,” Claude bounds up from the couch and relieves her of three of the shots. He downs his easily, a sly challenge wrapped in mockery. Lorenz catches his breath at the vibrance of him, even hair mussed, underdressed, and silly with drink. Then he opens his mouth, and Lorenz wonders what foul curse could possibly have taken hold of both his dick and his heart, to leave him at the mercy of such a fool. “Bitch ass white boys whose weak livers can’t handle their alcohol check,” Claude winks, shots outstretched to Sylvain and Dimitri. 

Comfortably perched on Dimitri’s lap, Felix snorts and takes his own shot from Annette with a loose smile that implies he’s definitely already a couple drinks in. Annette hands the last one to Ingrid, and plops down next to her on the big sectional with her own.

Annette cheers with Ingrid, who downs hers with a grimace, then with Felix, who grimaces more from the cheers than from the actual taste of alcohol.

Once all the drinks have been drained—Dimitri preoccupied with making a face like a cat that accidentally licked up its own litter and got the taste stuck in its mouth while Felix snatches the empty shot glass from him and Dedue passes him a cup of water—Claude turns to the trio of newcomers. 

“Invaders!” he shouts gleefully.

“This isn’t even your house, Claude,” Dimitri chastises, still hoarse. “They were invited. All the Eagles were.” 

“Only because no one expected von Vestra to actually take us up on it,” Sylvain says, not quite under his breath. 

Dimitri smacks him in the stomach, and Sylvain doubles over, winded. “Of course, you’re always welcome here,” he wheezes in correction. 

“Besides, Claude,” Hubert adds silkily, “We came with company. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge your own roommate an escort?”

Is that what you are, Lorenz thinks to himself, manicure tapping indents into the butter-soft leather of his crossed arms. He does _not_ appreciate being used as bait in Claude and Hubert’s eternally escalating, antagonistic friendship.

“Huh?” Claude looks past Hubert to where Lorenz is tucking his hair behind his ear and trying not to hunch.

“Lorenz!” he says, surprised. His face betrays nothing, good or bad, and even the lack of reaction makes Lorenz want to run back to their dorm, stilettos be damned. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.”

“Ferdinand called, and I changed my mind.” 

“Clearly.”

When he’d taken one last look in the mirror before rushing out of his dorm to meet Ferdinand and Hubert, Lorenz had felt good. Black peep-toe booties with thorny heels show off the sparkling purple pedicure that matches his polished hands and the gloss shining on his lips. High-waisted black shorts with expensive rips hug his slender waist. They flash a cheeky bit of skin from behind, completely unsuitable for both the change of season and the son of a politician, but satisfyingly scandalous. A plain black leather belt cinches his waist further, and a deep violet, silk shirt barely covers his chest— buttoned only at the very bottom, where it’s tucked in. It hangs open in an alluring drape, framing his lean torso. A silver chain, a delicately-wrought thing, hangs around his neck and loops through a matching square pendant that rests against his breastbone, warmed from his own skin and embossed with an intricate, blooming rose. It is, as far as party looks go, fairly standard— but for someone like Lorenz, who usually sticks to perfectly buttoned shirts and tailored trousers, this is hedonistic disarray, a gallery of fine art knocked askew and vandalized in the name of something indecent and avant-garde. 

Claude doesn’t say anything for a full minute, and the greetings of the others wash over him distantly like listening to rain on the windowpane from deep inside the house. No one remarks on the strangeness of his clothes; they only emphasize that he looks great, and in Sylvain’s case—which Mercie chastises—suggest that he dress as such more often, especially when attending their shared ethics class.

The compliments bolster his confidence, but they're short-lived against the way Claude burns every inch of exposed flesh with those cunning, devious eyes. Claude is so flirtatious by nature, and he hasn’t said a thing. What if his constant river of words has dried up because he, unlike the rest of their friends, has nothing complimentary to say at all? What if he now regrets agreeing to room with Lorenz for the second year in a row? What if he’s uncomfortable with this kind of— of expression, just like Lorenz’s father? He can’t imagine Claude and his father to be more different, but he fears rejection from both of them the very same.

“I just wanted to get a little dressed up,” Lorenz says finally, unable to bear the silence. He can hold his own against Claude’s mind games, damn him. “I did a bit of shopping with Hilda over fall break, and since I’ve been home, I’ve not had a chance to wear any of it.”

Now Claude reacts, eyes practically popping out of his head. “There’s _more_?”

Lorenz glares, prickly and prepared to defend his choice of petals. “Yes, von Riegan, there’s 'more.' And if you don’t like it, you can keep your comments to yourself.” He steels himself, and lies: “It’s not like I care for your opinion of my clothes.”

“Of course not,” Claude agrees, a bitter twist to his mouth. “What brought this on? Did something happen with your dad?”

The question carries the sting of accusation that he's not yet ready to put to words. If Lorenz didn't love him so desperately, he might hold him in contempt for it— alighting on a wilting stem too weak to bear the weight.

Instead, Lorenz looks down his nose. “Does something have to happen with my father for me to enjoy experimenting with my fashion?”

Claude’s brow pinches. “No, but—”

The speakers ripple with bass, fairly shaking the air around them and cutting him off. Lorenz can feel the vibration ripple over his skin like a physical touch— he almost stumbles in his heels from the surprise, and Claude reaches out as if to steady him. Lorenz holds his breath, but in the end, Claude never touches him, pulling back before his hand can make contact.

Immediately a fierce, outraged yowl erupts from Felix, and everyone pauses their individual conversations to peer at him. 

Face contorted into an enraged snarl, Felix scrambles on Dimitri’s lap to leap at their housemate, only stopped by Dimitri snagging him around the waist with his superior strength. “Sylvain,” he hisses through his teeth, not thwarted in the least. An elastic, sexy slowgrind of a beat almost drowns him out as it shakes the very foundation of the house, which only serves to make him even more irate. “I _told_ you not to put any songs from your shitty sex playlist on the party Spotify, or there would be consequences.” 

“It wasn’t me!” Sylvain says, throwing his hands up in innocence. 

Bernadetta shyly pops up from behind the speaker system, the connected laptop in her hands. “Sorry, that was me.”

“That’s my girl,” Sylvain shouts, winking at her with finger guns.

“Jesus Christ,” curses Felix, falling back against Dimitri. Lorenz uses his hand to cover a laugh as Claude meets his gaze with a salacious eyebrow waggle, the corners of those sea bottle eyes crinkling with mirth. At least their dorm isn't the only one with drama.

“It’s 'Pony.' By Ginuwine,” Annette announces cheerfully in explanation.

Ferdinand lights up. “I _love_ ponies.”

Lorenz and Hubert share a commiserating look over Ferdinand’s head.

“Dimitri’s room is at the very end of the hall, right next to Sylvain’s,” Annette continues, scooting to the edge of her seat and commanding everyone’s curiosity. “Felix has told me how annoying it is when Sylvain puts on his garbage music because it keeps them up all night.”

Felix slaps a hand over his eyes. “ _Annie_.”

Dimitri’s brow furrows. “But Felix,” he protests, “I was under the impression you rather liked this song—”

“Dumbass!” Felix cuts him off, cheeks betraying his embarrassment. “What did I say about speaking of this in public?”

“Ah. Not to do it.” He smiles at the rest of the group. “I am sworn to secrecy on the subject of my boyfriend’s preferences in the bedroom.”

The other hand joins the first, covering Felix's face completely. He says, muffled: “My preference tonight will be to kill you in your sleep, boar.” Dimitri kisses the side of his head.

Claude jumps in, then, and Lorenz thinks it’s probably because he doesn’t want his best friend to get murdered. “It’s okay, Felix. It’s a sexy song. It’s basically a cardinal rule that if it’s playing, boning has to happen.

Or, maybe when he sees a fire, he is equally liable to put it out as he is to succumb to an innate compulsion to douse it in kerosene. That’s Claude for you. “Ugh,” Lorenz rolls his eyes. “Not everything has to be so crass.” 

“C’mon, Lor. It’s the definition of a crass song. Even a snob like you can objectively admit that.”

“A snob?!” 

“Oh. I’m sorry. Would you prefer prude?” Claude’s eyes flick up and down the outfit he has yet to comment on, and Lorenz’s stomach flips. It’s both pleasant and unpleasant— Claude’s attention a double-edged sword he can't help but impale himself on. 

(Perhaps they are both too contrary for their own good.)

Sylvain whistles, watching them go back and forth from where he lounges on the couch between their standing figures, a fresh cup of whiskey and Coke at his mouth. “Are you just gonna take that?” he asks Lorenz with a provocative grin. 

Lorenz pauses, pursing his lips. Is he?

“No,” he announces sternly, and their friends’ good-humored chatter peters off. “No, I am not.”

“Listen, Lorenz, I’m sorry—” Claude tries, a hint of genuine remorse seeping through those handsome, devil-may-care features.

Lorenz holds up a hand. “Bernadetta?” he calls, never looking away from Claude’s garden-green eyes. “Restart the song.” 

“Y-yes, sir,” she says, and presses the back button.

The first pulsing beats bounce through the room, even louder than before. All of his friends are looking at them, but Lorenz can hardly feel anything other than flushed from the full attention of Claude’s curious stare. Without looking away, he grabs Sylvain’s drink from his hand—who happily lets it happen—and downs it in three gulps. He smacks his lips and chucks the empty cup over his shoulder, then shoves Claude down next to Sylvain. He stares at Claude impassively, sliding the leather jacket from his shoulders. It drips down the silk of his shirt; his eyes flutter at the caress until it sinks to the floor. The party is crowded, so the air is humid—almost sticky—but a draft from a cracked open window dances along his skin with the sensation of being watched. His nipples inevitably harden, tight and sensitive and exposed by the thin fabric. Someone wolf-whistles.

Lifting one high heel, he digs the sole into the couch between Claude's and Sylvain’s thighs. He can feel Claude nearly vibrating, either from anticipation or the bass. If Lorenz Hellman Gloucester knows one thing, it's this: a von Riegan is not about to get the better of him unscathed. 

He bites his bottom lip, determined. Ignoring the hitch of Claude's breath as the lyrics start, Lorenz turns to the redhead next to him, instead.

Sylvain jerks in surprise at suddenly being held captive by Lorenz’s full attention. Then Lorenz runs a hand down his own thigh—lean and pale, exposed by his raunchy shorts—and Sylvain smirks. The crowd around them whoops and cheers at the spectacle, urging them on. 

Lorenz stops the meandering touch at his knee, feeling the stretch along his thigh and drawing attention to the pull of denim at his groin, slow and purposeful. Following the pressure, he leans his knee into the cushion and swings his other leg up to straddle Sylvain. Both hands grab the back of the couch, and his pulse surges when the inside of his wrists graze the tips of Sylvain's ears.

He arches his back, putting his exposed chest on display and popping his ass into a sweet, round curve. Their audience hollers, and Lorenz shivers from the approval. Every move is leisurely, deliberate. He lifts one hand from the couch to smooth it across Sylvain’s shoulder, an innocuous distraction until he wraps it around his neck. The heat of Claude’s eyes scorches him, dares him to look, but he refuses to give him the satisfaction as his long, delicate fingers dance playfully across the eager bob of Sylvain’s Adam’s apple.

_ ”I’d let you grasp me any day… my hand, my heart, even my neck,”  _ Claude’s voice rings distantly in his ear, distorted by memory and the music, an overheard conversation with Hilda when they first met at freshman orientation.

In delighted submission, Sylvain tips his head back, and Lorenz tightens his grasp, just a touch— making him gasp, before wrapping his arm around the back of his neck and rolling his hips just so.

“W-woah,” he hears Sylvain breathe out next to his ear, and somewhere from the top floor’s balcony Hilda shouts “That’s my bitch!”

Sylvain gets bold then, grabbing Lorenz by the hips, and Lorenz smirks down at him before pushing back to his feet, putting his own hands over Sylvain’s and dropping all the way to the floor in a sinuous twist that matches the song’s melody. 

The lyrics hit a pause, and he laughs raucously, feeling terribly free, terribly himself. He stumbles away from Sylvain to rowdy cheers from all their friends, bending at the waist in a graceful bow. But Sylvain isn’t finished with him yet, not after that glorious tease— and grabs him by the belt to spin him back around and land directly in his lap.

“ _We’re gonna get nasty, baby_ ,” Annette sings along loudly, and Lorenz can’t help but laugh again as he slows the roll of his hips right down onto Sylvain’s cock. The denim is satisfyingly tented, and Lorenz feels that power all the way down to his tingling fingertips. He’s not immune to the heat between their bodies, after all— collarbone shiny with exertion, an ache between his thighs. What is Claude seeing, he wonders. Can he tell that his presence is what brings a tremble to his hands? Can he sense how desperately he wishes it were him Lorenz is touching? Does he see the longing in his face, how he can barely close his mouth from the effort it takes to breathe around the chokehold Claude has on him? It’s intoxicating, the idea that maybe Claude is watching him and that Lorenz is someone who is worth wanting. 

He chases that dizzying high, spreading his legs wide. Using the flexibility he rarely has occasion to show his friends, he arches his back into a perfect crescent that curls his spine prettily and grinds his heavy cock into Sylvain’s. A small gasp, almost a moan, stutters unbidden from his mouth. The music is loud enough that no one hears it, but a part of him still hopes Claude could.

His hair flies around his flushed face in disarray as he’s suddenly yanked back into Sylvain’s firm chest, agape at the big hand spanning the small of his back and moving him with unexpected strength and ease. This is the Gautier domain, this comfortable, erotic control. And, true to his nature and his reputation, Sylvain bites his lip, eyebrows raised in a blatant challenge.

To his left, he hears Claude murmur an almost drowned out, ambiguously flat “ _what the fuck_.” Something in his voice has Lorenz’s cock throbbing between his legs, a craving the man beneath him isn’t enough to soothe.

He hopes that Claude is really looking at him, finally peeling away the stuck-up, strait-laced veneer he’s had Lorenz pinned to since they’ve met. Even as they grew closer, true friendship and intimacy superseding their rivalry, it's as if Claude never fully shed that first impression of Lorenz: haughty and close-minded, stuck in the mire of his upbringing. He wants nothing more than for Claude to see his potential, to acknowledge that maybe he can meet Claude on his level, every level. Lorenz will sink or rise, so long as he can be by his side. He’s so tired of being stifled by expectations— his father’s, his own; he is washing his hands of withering every time Claude only takes him at the surface, even his keen eyes unwilling to consider the hidden depths Lorenz shields so carefully with pride and duty.

Unleashed and unrepentant, Lorenz grabs Sylvain’s wrist and brings it from his back up to the fall of his hair. He raises his own brow, only one— an answering dare— and Sylvain fists it. Distantly, Lorenz can hear Hilda losing her mind, and Sylvain gently—too gently, for Lorenz’s taste—uses the grip to guide his head back, baring the pale line of his throat. Sylvain teases along the column of his neck, his breath hot and damp. When he reaches the pierced lobe of his ear, his teeth latch onto the silver hoop there and _tug_. 

Lorenz whimpers, much louder than before, and this time Sylvain chuckles, letting go of his hair and letting him right himself. But he isn’t done; Sylvain takes the backwards cap off his own head, and tucks it onto Lorenz’s lavender locks.

Sylvain clearly thinks he's in charge now, and Lorenz is determined to disabuse him of the notion before their time is up. He adjusts the cap on his head and flips it, matching how Sylvain was wearing it backwards. And, both hands tight on the brim, he uses his slender core to rock forward in a slew of filthy, pulsing grinds. His ass bounces, and he takes care to slide the stiff head trapped beneath it between the clothed spread of his cheeks.

“Oh my God,” Sylvain breathes, and Lorenz can feel the tension in his thighs as he tries not to buck up. The song winds down, and Lorenz follows the beat— gradually, he twists so his back is to Sylvain. Still spread in a straddle over Sylvain’s knees, he slides forward until he can bring his legs back together and stand. 

The song ends, and cheers shake the house. Mercie, Annette and Ingrid use the reprieve to bat Sylvain's hands away from Lorenz with the couch pillows and scold him for getting so handsy. From beneath their slaughter, Sylvain calls out. “Hey Gloucester, if you want— geez Annie, watch the face— we could continue this somewhere else?”

The girls shriek and pummel him even harder, and when Sylvain pushes himself up to brush them off, Claude grabs him by the collar of his shirt and unceremoniously yanks him back down.

Meanwhile, Hilda practically leaps down the staircase to throw herself at Lorenz and lift him bodily from the waist. “You wicked slut!” she yells, eyes shining with approval. “When you said you’d taken dance classes, I didn’t think you meant _those_ kind of dance classes!” 

“It was mostly ballet,” he corrects. “But sometimes we had guest instructors.”

“Guest instructors, my ass! That was hot,” Hilda shakes him like a magic eight-ball that just showed her an unacceptable answer and puts him down. Her arm stays wrapped around his waist, though, as she props a manicured hand on her hip. “Guess it’s time to eat your words, Claude,” she says, the man in question leaning back on the couch, arms crossed. 

“Guess so,” he says, noncommittal. “Sylvain certainly had a good time.” 

Sylvain is no longer paying them any mind; the girls have ceased their attacks, but Bernie has ventured over from her safe spot by the speakers to bashfully approach a glowing, slightly flustered Sylvain. He still has the heat of arousal about him, obvious on his pale skin, but it does well to hide the color of his smile as Bernadetta compliments his restraint and rambles about how it will be a great reference for her writing. 

“Did he?” Lorenz says smugly. “I couldn’t tell.”

Claude is smiling, but there’s something dangerous about it that winds him up far more than the physicality of the lap dance. It doesn’t look quite— happy; rather, it has an edge, too sharp at the corners to be wholly genuine. He pushes himself to his feet and closes the space between them. Hilda’s arm slips away, and even though he is taller than Claude, he is stared down by his seaglass eyes, utterly in their thrall. 

Claude outstretches his hand, and for a single, spine-tingling moment, Lorenz thinks he’s going to caress his cheek. But those thick, warm fingers pass his face without hesitation and duck behind his head to grab the lid of Sylvain’s hat and lift it from its perch. He studies it for a moment, considering the garish teal-and-burgundy fabric bearing the Garreg Mach basketball team logo in his open palms. Then he dumps it onto Sylvain’s vacant seat, and reaches up again to smooth the staticky ruffle of Lorenz’s thin, silky hair. “You look better without it,” he says.

His heart shivers and swells, and he covers his mouth, terrified of what his expression might reveal. “I’ll take care not to wear hats in the future, then.” 

Claude’s gaze sears straight through him, relentless and bright and too much. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Lorenz has to look away. “Oh?”

But Claude doesn’t explain. Instead he inclines his head towards the patio, and shoving his hands in the baggy pockets of his basketball shorts, cuts his way through the crowd. Uncertain but helpless but to follow, Lorenz trails after him, blushing and accepting high fives or slaps on the back from people he knows and people he doesn’t as he goes. 

When they make it outside, the air is noticeably cooler, but unlike before Lorenz welcomes the bracing air; it cools the sweat on his skin and disguises the trembling in his hands. 

Claude keeps his back to him, overlooking the dark greens and dead browns of the bare forest past the yard. It's nerve-wracking, his silence. It means he's thinking, and he never fails to surprise Lorenz with what goes on inside his head.

“I really am sorry,” Claude says quietly, and for a second Lorenz thinks he’s misheard. “For what I said.” His head turns slightly, the yellow porch light illuminating his strong profile, highlighting the firm line of his faintly bearded jaw in gold. Without the crew neck, leggings, and loose athletic shorts, he could be an ancient king, his beauty immortalized forever on the press of a coin.

“Thank you,” Lorenz murmurs, disconcerted by the gravity weighing on Claude’s shoulders, on his voice. 

“It was unfair. I shouldn’t have said something like that, let alone in front of our friends. I embarrassed you.”

Lorenz takes one tentative step after another until he ends up at his roommate’s side. He puts a slender hand on Claude’s arm, the soft yellow fleece almost as addictive to the touch as the man wearing it. “Claude…”

Claude turns to him, the stony tension in his mouth belying the unbearable sadness in his eyes. “Is that why you didn’t go to the party with me? Is that… how I always make you feel?” 

“ _Claude_ —”

“Every conversation feels like a personal challenge, and you have to prove me wrong. And let’s just say, I’m not convinced I’m entirely innocent.”

Claude’s breath fogs the air between them like a physical thing, the cold intruding upon them and forcing them closer together. Lorenz inhales it like sweet smoke, holding it in his lungs like he could hold Claude inside with it. He allows himself a long moment to bask in the fantasy of closing the distance before Claude is once again out of reach.

“You were right. About my father.” 

Claude’s face crumples, and he doesn’t hesitate to wrap a shocked Lorenz in his arms and draw him close. Even though Claude is shorter and he has to hunch slightly to press his face into Claude’s shoulder, Lorenz’s eyes water from how unbearably good it feels. “I’m sorry,” Claude says again, his face pressed into Lorenz’s hair.

“I don’t want to talk about it, if that’s… permissible,” he says, and Claude replies, “Of course, baby,” and Lorenz shudders from both the pet name and the soft touch of lips he feels against the side of his head.

“Claude?” 

“You really do look spectacular tonight,” he says by way of an answer. Lorenz pulls back slightly to look at him. “But you always look good. Too good for me to keep a clear head, anyway.”

Claude clears his throat. “I. Uh,” he laughs, a short, frantic burst of a thing. “This isn’t how I meant to do this, but your moves back there short-circuited my brain, apparently.”

“Do what?” Lorenz asks, the words barely audible for all he lacks the breath to form them.

Claude laughs again, and Lorenz is dazzled by the flash of perfect white teeth, hopelessly charmed. He is a sprouting stem, bending with the sun's guidance— Claude’s hands cradling his cheek and gently pushing back his hair until their mouths meet in a soft kiss. When Claude pulls away, it’s like every confusing expression Lorenz has ever seen on his face makes sense. He blinks, slow and syrupy, perfectly under Claude’s spell. Claude chuckles, but it has a nervous edge. Unfamiliar, on Claude, and absolutely unsuited to him. “Uh… that.”

Lorenz closes his eyes again, intent on reliving the sticky press, the sour tequila taste. “You can do it again, if you’d like.” He licks his lips, chasing the sensation. 

Claude is quiet for a moment, and Lorenz almost reluctantly opens his eyes before Claude’s mouth swoops back in, this time _harder_. Lorenz moans into it, allowing Claude to lead him backwards—his touch tender, but his fingers wonderfully rough—until he’s pressed against the side of the house, the cold brick seeping through the threadbare fabric of his shirt but so cool compared to the brilliant fires Claude kindles on his body wherever he touches.

“I know I deserved it,” Claude admits breathlessly as he abandons Lorenz’s mouth to nibble marks along his neck. “But that tease— I thought you were going to put me in my place. Didn’t realize you were going to use Sylvain to do it,” he laughs. “Lucky bastard, with his hands all over you. Coulda killed him.”

“Were you jealous?” Lorenz asks slyly, tempering his grin into the appropriate amount of glee.

Claude wraps a hand in the blunt length of Lorenz’s hair, twisting it around to the root. He pulls, startling a desperate mewl from his mouth as he can’t control the stutter of his hips into Claude’s. The tug brings his mouth back down within reach, and Claude’s savage grin meets his languid, blissed out expression. “Monstrously,” Claude says, and closes the distance between them again to capture his bottom lip between his gleaming teeth and bite.

Lorenz sighs, arching hungrily into every touch Claude brands onto his skin, his hands hot and entirely decadent, everything he’s craved on him, inside him. Opening up has never been so easy.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Lorenz says. “I only thought of you.”

“ _A-ah_! Shit,” Claude curses, his fist dropping from Lorenz’s hair to dig into his shoulder, same as the other. Lorenz’s pants are just as shallow as Claude’s ruffling his hair; he has his face buried in it as if the rosy shroud of perfume is all the air he needs to breathe. “I know you only just got here,” he says after a long moment. “But can I take you home?”

“Von Riegan,” Lorenz reaches up to twine his spindly fingers with Claude’s, so much thicker and more blunt. He draws them to his lips and places a chaste kiss on the tips. Claude’s dark eyelashes sweep down to his cheeks, and Lorenz doesn’t have to hide his smirk as he takes them into his mouth and sucks, hard and deep. Claude moans. “I would like nothing but.” 

☀ ❁

“And they’re gone,” Hilda announces from where she’s on her tiptoes, peeking out the window with the most inconspicuous view of the porch. “Mari wins the pot!” 

“Bullshit!” Caspar says and pouts with crossed arms. Lin slips his hand into his back pocket and grabs his wallet anyway to deal out the appropriate amount of bills. Arguments over technicalities drown out the music, and Hubert rubs his temple.

Under his breath, he mutters, “The Blue Lions truly do bring out the worst in us.”

“Not the worst,” argues Ferdinand, still a little breathless from the display. “But maybe they do bring out… the animal.” He looks up at Hubert through his lashes, and before Hubert can even gulp at the implication there, Ferdinand seizes his hand and drags him through the crowd to the bathroom. 

**Author's Note:**

> lorenz hive drop your twitter handles in the comments so i can follow you thanks


End file.
